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  • salted_peanuts 16h

    #december #wod #peanut_sobs
    nigah - gaze
    shajar - tree (shelter)
    abscess - A cavity caused by tissue
    destruction, usually because of infection.
    ( abscess is formed on our fingers when we
    brew coffee with a spoon)

    Hello, I am back with a trash post!

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    || December - spring of poetries ||

    // I sat besides decembers knitting skirts for my trojan
    deaths and drooled ink in sunset chewed woods dressing
    the mellow hearth where my fifteen summer burns. //

    Then asked my sour knuckles holding my metaphor cloaked veins,

    " December, why you knocked at the window of my breathing
    and hushed the bleak silence of my heart, weaving crime
    accused soul for sunflower dyed body of my innocence ? "

    He replied wearing the tuxedo of my bruised body,

    " I clutched your breathing to cover the shoulders of
    your poetries with the deprivation of pride in me unlike
    the pretentious deaths of your springs that thrust the
    priest of my inked church to kneel before his poetic prejudice.
    Yes I hushed the silence of your heart, The stars above us
    are chimerical now, produced of the daydreamings of
    your moon, they need the shajar of your cicatrized heart to
    feel the presence of their light.Your innocence is the murderer
    of my sunflowers beauty, How much of yourself resides in you?
    I weaved you a soul excel in somersaults of assaulting the
    silence of my pale mornings to fill the hiatus of poetries in you. "

    Then asked my shrinking eyes and shelved smiles,

    "December, Are you the harbinger of poetries and stars, or the
    showcase of bygones and scars? Why you pierced the abscess
    that bloomed on my fingers while I brewed coffee for my yawning
    summers with your blunt eyes that sharpens it's nigah on my minced voice?

    He answered wearing the shades of my tears,

    " I am the harbinger of poetries and the showcase of
    scars, I have what they call cold breaths and thus I am a
    living bygone, As I bleeded before, Stars are chimerical
    now, I am nothing but a repose twilight for nightskies.
    I have shredded the smoke of your cigarettes as I
    inhale the metaphors of your summers, Yes I pierced
    the abscess on your fingers, I malice the poetries
    summers are showered with even when they absqu
    atulate and leave you like an autumn leaf on the
    pavement of love melodies. I held you by my soul then,
    It's not my erratum that I am not warm enough to
    burn your Melancholia. I stay by your breaths even
    when I am abused by your sunrises. Yes I sharpen
    my gaze on your minced voice in hope of weaving some
    pieces, I hope I am not banal as a poet in saying so."

    // I am with my body buried in the fifth breaths
    of poetry's spring as I howl metaphors for the
    assurance of December's coronation in my poesy. //


  • salted_peanuts 3w

    ghalib - poet

    #love? #wod

    Thank you @/writersnetwork :')

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    ~ Love ~

    || Ask me, oh him, ask us sunsets, why does he feel your pink hues on his cheeks? A little touch of sweatshirts I have my heart throbbing metaphors, It took me a few poetries to go and tryst moon after he plucked the nightskies from my eyes. His springs clutched his fingers in the conjure of autumns rising as he sees the moon throwing its hand on my little shoulders, His tinsel eyes hush my cat's purrs, Stars fuss over me again. ||

    Warm and red and clear as hands can be
    I walk my nights on his eyes.

    I am one but shattered as my heart can be
    He walks his springs on my soul.

    Quiescent and sober and sweet as songs can be
    I walk my mornings on his pulse.

    || Ask me, oh him, ask us springs, Why does he paint your hair on my soul? A wisp of his hair touched, my heart is pilled up like the books me and my nascent shades of red stitched. I have been weaving some pictures of my spring death last night, "ask, ask me my sorrows, they are sitting midst us." He would grow me a ghalib and I would shed my grieve as a thousand autumns. ||

    Cold and icy and winter as words can be
    I walk my solitude on his poetry.

    He is one but a poet as a thousand springs can be
    He walks his metaphors on my autumns.

    Trembling and wobbling and shrinking as a night can be
    I walk my heart on his scars.


  • salted_peanuts 3w

    @woodsorrels_ tried to write like you :')

    #silence #peanut_sobs

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    ~Silence ~

    I am a sound your autumns sprout and a cry your
    springs enthrall, I am the chauffeur of the chariot
    of winter flower's metaphors and the sorcerer of
    your sunday's metanoia into the carnaval of coffee
    and loose trousers. I carry the red blush of your em-
    barrassed sunrise in my arms when its light over
    takes your moon. I placate the night's howl of your
    cerulean sky with my fingers dipped in the cauldron
    of sun tailored metaphors brewing the renaissance
    of sunsets and ink. I plait my anklets with wreaths
    of your spring abscond and saturate my ears with
    the contemplation of the death moans of your pre-
    terite. I strew my eyes on the canvas of your sunken
    metaphors, recite your prayers clogged somewhere
    between my sky and your god. I crease my skirt of
    tears in nightfall to spade you six feet poetries for
    summer suicides. I cafun'e the hair of your saudade
    memories dawn, I am sometimes the moon vested
    abuse you drench your scars with. I am the salon
    where you bring your cries to get pampered and the
    atelier where you cut the collar of your spring shirted
    metaphors. I am the caricature of your sunsets, an ivory
    amulet your fiery heart casked in its atrium where your
    poetries rage.


  • salted_peanuts 4w

    sitaatron mein bhikre ha seher zahid e ghazal ke
    aaj dareecha e nazm bhi khule ha aur
    baahar bhi darwaaza khol khila ha.

    @maestral A very happy birthday to you :)

    thank you for the like @/writersnetwork

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    Mistral of words,
    unnoticed sombre clouds

    His wind chimes still murmurs
    the aubade of golden swans

    quill so icy, his poetry are
    candlelights the moon charms

    Open hand or closed fist,
    he clutched the bazaar of love rhapsody

    And oh his rusted guitar strings
    hum the serenade of his worn fingers.

  • salted_peanuts 4w

    Edited and posted again :'/
    ( sorry to those people who
    have already read the half part)

    Meaning of Ayesha - 'She' who lives.
    Heaven feet - idiom used to describe mothers
    "Maa ke pairo tale jannat hoti ha"

    #free #start #wod

    Daily trash :/
    Won't be active , exams are near (20th Nov)

    thank you @/writersnetwork for the like :)

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    | She who lives |


    / Night Poet /
    || I close my eyes and recite, Oh god with your name I live and die, clutched some poetries and scars, clobbered the different religions my poets charmed. ||

    / Abstract /
    Spring - choking in autumn cupboard, Winter - floating with stars in nightskies,
    Nine weary sunrise - My lost father, Fifteen Sunsets - I am fifteen years old and my mother wants me back and beguiling moons - amalgam of moon and death. ||

    //~ Murder of my poet at the insurgence of poetry ~//

    | Mellow seasons of incomplete poetries - Two things are eating my soul |

    - Springs - || I bid ode to my spring breaths, autumns are naked in my hands. I am Ayesha, mayhaps that is why death flatters me.

    " Kiyarion mein beej boe the, zam-zam ka marham bhi laga ya tha, phir kyun yeh mere qasidon me hi ugte hain, jaane kitne seher oob gaye, raatein dhal si gayi, mere aangan me ek phool na khila."

    I have whelved seeds in my flower bed, applied salve, nevertheless they bloom in my elegy, don't know how many sunrise bled pale hues every morning , and how many nightskies obscured moon, spring never came in my patio. ||

    - Winters - || Winters drooled sunflower's death in my poetries, shackled the daffodils and floated with my stale scars in nightfall. Some religions of winters fed upon my soul and engraved poets on my body. I watched as autumns, the sleeves of winters folding the bruised metaphors of my springs in its plates. I watched as springs, The zephyrs of winters nurturing the aptness of autumns on my ink. ||


    | Skies - I stood against the wind of hope, howled like a transparent ink of death. |

    - Nine weary sunrise - || When I was six i crackled sunrises like silent fireworks bursting out my tears, and nightskies by then was like olive branches for sunsets. Now, my sunrise purrs like my cat when I abuse my poetries with his shades, I have worn out my sunrises at the age of six over those weekends when my father used to play hide n seek with me and I never caught him. Little did I knew that his silhouettes will conjure my soul till my fifteen breaths of poetries? Anyhow nine weary sunrises fed upon my poet and a million will. ||

    - Fifteen Sunsets - || I am watching my painted sky, yesterday I cried on my three year old sepia photograph in which my mother is brushing a wisp of eye lash from my face and today a poet has died - If one can look at my sky and back to where I stood as an infant then in that tawny glimpse of past, I have sighed a sunset out of my eyes and she enthralled it in her shoes. I am murdering my thousand poet today, I have shed fifteen sunsets on heaven feet. ||

    - Beguiling moon - || I am the midnight of forgotten memories, an amalgam of different inventions of moons and deaths. Death is pretentious and Moon is a raconteur of deaths. As moon mocks me a baisemain, the stars out of envy falls upon my body, My poet is just like a child solaced by a mother's/poetry's lies, he will let the stars bleed scars on my body for his poetic breaths, forsooth, this is what the poet in me yearns for. You can't force the stars to align when they had died but scars on my hand can be fathomed as souls of poetry tonight. ||


  • salted_peanuts 4w

    ~ Maimed Mother ~
    I poured some matricidal tears in the jar full of mother's silence and spangled henna to guise the serenade of scars. I was fifteen poetries away from springs when I heard the sunrise suiciding in the swollen eyes of my mother. Once in every metaphor of incomplete poetries, when I was a poet for a spring, My mother used to weave kisses for the metaphors sinking in the oceans emulating my nightskies, As darkness stride barefoot on my body, she used to placate it with the sunset hues. I am just a paralian poet now playing pungi in front of wobbling sunset hues and metaphors. My poetries are the decoit of my mother's soul, I romanticize moon's scars to scour her veined hands hanging on the euphony of my preterite.

    ~ Cicatrized hands ~
    I engulfed the melchior of merits and howled like a thousand autums in the meadow of springs, I sketched scarlet rivers on my hands marionetted by some minds anchored in an ocean full of scattered black and white questions but what's the point rivers still amalgamate with oceans. I gulped some voices while munching moon and stars, they collapsed with the clogged poetries in my throat, I am a murderer of respect now, hanged by some voices itching on my head. My expertise is calculated by some formulaes and equations, some vintage myths and some blemishes. A dagger is placed on my chest, if I speak parts of my flesh will be minced to inches with which I animate my poet.

    #hyperbole(idk) #wod

    pungi - instrument played
    by snake charmers.

    'jar full of mother's silence' - prompt
    for the challenge conducted by @/poetsbatch
    on Instagram

    Edited and posted again
    ( I am sorry :'/)

    Thank you so much @/writersnetwork :')

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    ~ Hyperbole ~

    1 - || Poet for a mother ||

    ~ Maimed Mother ~
    Her cries trailed in the trousers of my
    bygones and slurped inside my navel.
    l gave birth to a shore for the thousand
    oceans and sunken tears of her eyes.

    2 - || Poet as a teenager ||

    ~ Cicatrized Hands ~
    Scarlet poetries dance inside those
    shallow ball rooms, the smell of moon
    is stagnant and the voices of springs
    are scraping the walls of my waltz.


  • salted_peanuts 4w

    Edited and posted again
    ( I am sorry again)

    #myth(idk) #wod
    #peanut_sobs daily trash

    amerald - green
    mistral - cold wind
    irises - symbolize hope
    salvador - saviour
    Tarannum - melody
    noor - light
    melchior - a very large vine bottle ^o^
    sclera - white part of the eye

    Thank you @/writersnetwork for the like :')
    Thank you so much for EC :)

    P. S - Happy Diwali to all :)
    Have a great day ahead

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    ~ Why flowers bloom in spring ? ~

    | From a flower's ecstasy towards poets |

    Days are long and soils are basked, Quills are stagnant in malachite photographs.I laud the eluded hope with shades of irises and shattered glasses of redamancy with hues of red.I am the woman caressing the child of a poet's autumn hope and the only child sprouting the tears of an abandoned mother.

    ~ I was brewed in springs to be a poet's salvador
    stalked with ink for an odyssey to metaphors ~

    Spring is an excuse of a poet for my bloom in his ink, I am the religion of autumns and winters in his prose. I crease my adamant flaws while riding the chariot of metaphors from azure skies and placate the morning hues with the droplets of moon's secrets on my amerald wrists.

    ~ I was blossomed in springs to nurture hiraeth of autumns
    stalked with tears for a few poetries with moon ~

    I walk my days on a bird's tarannum, weaving nest for your lost noor. I adorned my eyes with sclera as winter's tacenda and howled at the wind withering your home. I am the melchior your poetries want to imbibe and a sober mother your wet eye lashes yearn for.

    ~ I was born in springs to enthrall your silent screams
    stalked with mistral for an hour as a mother ~


  • salted_peanuts 5w

    #start #wod #peanut_sobs

    Edited and posted again
    ( sorry to those people who have already
    read this, I lack in self confidence)

    thank you @/writersnetwork :)

    hijr(urdu) - separation
    asters - flowers that bloom in
    August and October (fall)
    tuxedo - A man's dinner jacket

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    ~ A thousand poet ~

    The spring hijr between me and my poet whispered in my lacuna :
    "Smile like those abandoned flowers swaying in the meadow of our poetries"

    // I stabbed my heart to give birth to this poet as spring is already gone //
    I have painted some sunflowers in my empty eyes when the seeds of springs in my proses sprout into the sepia tints of scorched roses and periwinkles. I have died as a thousand poet in the riches of poetries, Albeit the fragile petals of periwinkles are evergreen and the white lies of roses are sequin, My soul will bleed ink for the womb holding the seven shades of my cadaveric flowers and two saplings of their whimpered mothers. When those sunflowers fall off my eyes, the taupe shades of their cortex and tawny amber hues of their faces weave cardigans for my sunset blush, I would not get the pink aflush of skies this spring to spangle my nights with some kalopsic surmise.

    The autumn dalliance between me and my poet whispered in my scars :
    "Your tacit of spring ink will be crunched like charred leaves"

    // My poet is the nascent shade of autumn //
    I romanticize metaphors and abrade the withered petals for some ball dresses. I hum the cries of my origami springs in autumn poetries and balter over the leaching blood of the feiullemort leaves clogging the sink of my moon vested metaphors. I am lost in the reverie of devouring the scars of moon as a sport,
    I have won some tears of stars on my hand in merit. The amethyst shades of asters are in rich that the sepult souls of spring metaphors covered in death as tuxedos are dancing. My poet has lived a thousand deaths in the verses of autumn paean.

    The winter swathe between me and my poet whispered in my caligo :
    "I have been growing hope in your backyard"

    // The nine shades of my womb have ripened into metaphors //
    There is so much to guise in winters; wrinkles of the aging summers, brontide of the weeping monsoon and the tacit of olive vines girdling spring reminiscence.
    My winters wear long sleeves sheathing my turbulent eyes since the sunflowers have been raped. Some clementines have been wrung in the freckles of summer quills, metaphors are saturated with embers of azure tears and the olives are painted with placated adust roses from the tabernacle of my jigsaw heart.
    Hope is a porcelain dish in which metaphors are served to the nightskies, it is the macabre of incomplete poetries. I am a thousand poet suciding in your backyard to decay into seeds of hope, scouring the way for your poetries to tease your darkest nights, Hope is the season I wish to be born as in poetries.

  • salted_peanuts 5w

    Boketto (Japanese) - the act of gazing vacantly
    into the distance without thinking.

    Fika(Swedish) - Swedish culture of making time for
    having coffee with friends and family.
    (a moment to slow down and appreciate the blessings)

    Meliorism - Belief that world gets better

    p.s - Praise my pinterest feed for these three
    amazing words

    #todo (idk) #peanut_sobs
    #wod #ceesreposts

    Thank you @/writersnetwork for the like :)
    Thank you so much for EC, highly grateful :)

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    ~ To do ~

    1- Enthrall - Stay Quiescent -
    An autumn leaf once nurtured the zephyr
    of your spring adjectives which induced
    the sun to scream its rage on your ink.
    Be a feiullemort blee, and absorb
    the absurd riches of your cicatrized moon.

    2- Write - Stitch your voice -
    lay prostrate on proses and imagine
    the stars above without darkness, leave
    the bygones to snarl around spring metaphors,
    and shed the tacit of winter flowers in the
    autumn haikus.

    3- Boketto - mother's swollen eyes -
    Sequin metaphors in the girdles of mother's tears
    should be kept obscured from the deaths of your
    tsundoku incomplete proses. Those cryptic onyx
    eyes holds the depth of different oceans
    from your midnight scars.

    4- Fika - Coffee with dad's silhouettes -
    Your quill bleeds your father's portrait without
    a canvas or a single metaphor, He is not among the
    one's buried under the guise of cologne proses,
    He is a living elegy of your sprouting body, Trail his
    heart in your empty metaphors, picture his soul in
    the Lunette smile of your darkest night.

    5- Meliorism - adorn spring in scars -
    Alate your scars to springs and a thousand
    dawns will cradle your agony. Your soul is a
    cascade falling in your scars, One day they
    will collapse and the embers will engrave
    stars on nightskies.

    6- Nepenthe - gymnasm with arts -
    As the darkness stride barefoot on
    your body, bleed your soul into sunset hues,
    Paint the skies of your preterite
    with aureate corsets of vintage tears.

    7 - Romanticize reverie - Burning bridges -
    flow down on the foothills of saudade, like the
    rivers of proses streaming down from the
    leaching mascara of your eyes, frame a
    dalliance with the musings of seeking death.

    8- Macabre - Reconcile the summers -
    Recollect your alamort poetries stabbed
    by the fifteen teenage swings swaying in your
    Summers, Carry the metaphors of kids by the
    fence howling at your library card and weave
    a chivalry out of the scimachy between them.


  • salted_peanuts 5w


    thank you @/writersnetwork for the repost ❤️

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    ~ I don't want to be a poet ~

    ~ Salted peanuts - scars sprinkled on stars ~
    I am an artist in imitating death, just how I filled my ecstasy for the moon with shades of morose in poetries, How I am in an endless repeating journey from God's feet to a sinner's pocket. The colour of henna on my hands fades away and my true veined hands are visible to the nights, 'cicatrized hands' are now what the poet in me yearns for, The acrobats of metaphors, melancholia and paralian mothers weaving kisses for the sunken oceans and sunset blees to praise the moons and autumns.

    ~ Somersaults of melancholia ~
    I would grow a couple of mothers and komorebi symphonies for my tsundoku love,They would foster the sins of my last night's poet into their arms,burry them in the poetries and will stand up like the empty canvas of nightskies, and I would pack my chariot again for the journey towards a sinner's ripped jeans pocket.

    ~ From a sinner poet's dictionary of grieve ~
    My metaphors are rich with autumns, I can spendthrift my luxuries of sadness to a million poets. My soul is a residue of homicide between the ink that cuts my wrists and the night cascade falling on my paper. I have asked a thousand quills to kneel on the porcelain floor of the verses from the eternal light. He would abort my metaphors but will never abandon his ink.